


The Highest Bidder

by starspangledmanwithaplan



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face Slapping, Hate Sex, Language, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22255696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledmanwithaplan/pseuds/starspangledmanwithaplan
Summary: Ransom bids a staggering amount of money for a massage.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Reader, Ransom Drysdale/You, ransom drysdale/female reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 111





	The Highest Bidder

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was submitted by @the-chocolate-moose on Tumblr.

* * *

The time has come for the obscenely wealthy to flaunt their status by comparing the sizes of their… wallets, all in the name of charity, of course. Anyone who's anyone has been invited to tonight’s soiree, and of course, Hugh Ransom Drysdale thinks he’s _ someone damn important _. 

He struts into the room like a damn peacock, with a swagger and confidence that would make anyone’s knees turn to jelly, but not yours. No ma’am. You know the Drysdale/Thrombey family, and you _ know _ the kind of people they are. They’re greedy, lying through their perfectly straight white teeth, born with a silver spoon in their mouths, entitled, looking out for numero uno… they're not good people, okay? Well, except for Harlan, but he is the family’s _ only _ saving grace. Everyone else is a damn vulture, and Ransom is the cream of the crop. 

God, you hate him. 

You’re on your third glass of champagne when you spy him from across the room as he surveys the silent auction items. Tables are loaded with fruit and cheese baskets, over-the-top floral arrangements, luxurious spa days and extravagant vacations, skydiving and NASCAR lessons; anything and everything that the rich and famous could think of was available, including your offer of a three hour, deep tissue and hot stone massage. 

You don’t expect to get many bids, and the ones you do get won’t be anything extreme, but you’re thankful for the exposure. Word of mouth is what you, a small business owner, and many others, rely on in this day and age. So when Ransom reaches the area with your clipboard and a wicked smirk curls his lips, your stomach drops. 

_ No, no, no. Please God, no. Don’t let him bid. _

Ransom picks up the pen and scribbles on the sheet of paper before standing tall, a _ new _ level of cockiness surrounding him. Bright eyes find yours like a goddamn laser, and the son of a bitch raises his glass and _ grins _. 

_ Fuck _. 

Your skin burns as your gut churns angrily and you _ pray to everything that is holy _ that he doesn’t notice the flush creeping up your neck, but judging by the way he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, he does. Oh, he notices, alright. He sends a wink your way before sauntering out of the room, and you can’t stop yourself from lurching over to the table to see what the hell he just did. You’re _ just about there _ when the clipboard disappears from sight. 

“You know better than to peek,” Mrs. Wilson, the night’s event organizer, chastises you. “It’s supposed to be a surprise for everyone, vendors included.”

You roll your eyes and fight the urge to stomp your foot. “Ransom Drysdale just made a bid.”

Her eyes sparkle as she peers down at the clipboard. “He sure did.”

“And I need to know how much it is.”

“You’ll find out when everyone else does,” she manages to say, her eyes wide with shock, disbelief. “Which will be in half an hour.” She literally chases you from the room and locks the door. 

The desire to kick and pound on the door is overwhelming, but not as much as the weight of someone’s gaze. You swallow heavily and turn around to greet the fork-tongued playboy. 

“Hugh,” you grit out, moving to take a drink only to find your glass empty. 

“Only the help calls me Hugh,” he reminds you. “And darlin’, you definitely aren’t the help.” 

You exchange your empty glass for a full one as one of the many waiters pass by. “Can you at least _ pretend _ to act like you’re not a fifteen year old boy with a raging hard on?” 

“Baby, if I were hard,” he murmurs, stepping _ all up _ in your personal space, “you’d know it.” 

“Gross,” you scoff and roll your eyes, taking a _ big _step back and an even bigger drink of champagne. 

A predatory glimmer lights up Ransom’s eyes. “You didn’t think it was gross in Nepal when I had you over the bar. In fact, I remember you liked it so much you asked me to _ do it again _ .” He takes a step closer. “And again.” Another step. “And _ again _.” He’s so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath. 

Okay. Alright, yeah. You and Ransom fucked. One night. _ Years _ ago. When you were young and too naive to know better. You believed Ransom when he said he would call, when he praised your body, said you made him _ feel good _ . You believed him and the bastard made you _ cry _ . _ Nobody _ made you cry, but somehow Ransom did. 

“I was eighteen, _ Hugh _ ,” you snarl, pressing a hand against his cashmere-covered chest and _ shoving _. “I didn’t know any better.” 

Ransom’s eyes rake over _ every inch _ of your body. “You certainly look like you know better now.”

“Fuck you.”

“Been there,” he gloats as he steps back, giving you some much needed space. 

Mrs. Wilson comes around the corner at that very moment. “There you are. We’re getting ready to announce the winners.” 

You swallow down the burning fury and give her a polite smile. “I’m coming.” 

As you brush past a smirking Ransom, he murmurs, “Done that.” 

God, you _ fucking _ hate that man.

Mrs. Wilson steers you onto the stage with the other men and women whose items were bid upon. Your stomach is somersaulting, your hands are like ice, you’re pretty sure the entire room can hear the beating of your heart, and you feel like you’re going to pass out. Your face is burning, your head is swimming, and _ God, why did Ransom have to be here? _

The woman announcing the winners is drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears, the lights so bright you’re squinting, and as the floor beneath your feet starts to shift, your name cuts through everything and people are clapping. 

“Wha- what happened?” you ask as you’re pulled up to the podium. 

She’s smiling wide, _ too _wide. “You got the highest bid out of everyone.”

“Who bid?” you ask even though you _ know _ damn well who. 

“Me, baby,” Ransom purrs, standing _ too _ close, smelling _ too _ good. 

Your turn to glare up at him. “The hell did you do?”

Ransom winks and wraps an arm around your shoulders. “I just paid $25,000 for one of your ‘life-changing massages’.” 

_ Ooooooo, he’s lucky there’s people around _. 

You want to deck him, punch those perfect teeth out of his fucking face. “You did _ what _?!” 

“You should be grateful, baby. Now you don’t have to worry that pretty little head of yours about keeping the doors of that… quaint shop open.”

Oh… oh, _ God _ . He’s a fucking _ dick _. 

The two of you are ushered off the stage before you can do something _ really _ embarrassing, and the moment it’s just the two of you, you spin around and slap him, _ hard _. Your hand stings, fingertips almost numb, chest aching. 

“I don’t _ need _ your fucking money, _ Hugh _,” you snarl. 

Ransom’s tongue darts out, dampens the corner of his mouth before his thumb sweeps across it. “Always did like it when you got feisty.” 

You want to toss your head back and scream, but you don’t. You don’t know _ how _ you don’t, but you manage to refrain. “I’ll get you a refund.” 

“I don’t want a refund, baby.” Blue eyes sparkle as he comes _ well _ within your airspace. “I want _ you _.” And then he’s winking, spinning on his heel, and walking away from you for the second time in your life. 

God _ damn _it.


End file.
